


Cosmopolitan

by Reynier, secace



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Interviews, M/M, a lot of sex jokes and references to sex but no actual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:35:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29749233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/pseuds/Reynier, https://archiveofourown.org/users/secace/pseuds/secace
Summary: Gawain does an interview with Cosmopolitan magazine. He's not entirely sure what that is.
Relationships: Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	Cosmopolitan

**Author's Note:**

> this is set in like a parallel universe of round table 2 the sequel except in this universe lancelot and gawain were together in the original setting. nothing else has changed. also we're sorry

“So, what magazine is this for?” Lancelot asked, still with a tinge of sleepy resentment at this publication's interruption of his lazy morning.

“I dunno,” Gawain said, pulling on a jacket and kissing him goodbye. “Some sort of politics or travel thing.”

“Huh,” Lancelot said, already asleep again. 

The interview was at 8 in the morning, which Gawain justified by reasoning that world travellers had to be up and at it very early, and also by not noticing that as an inhumane time of day in which to be awake. He had been given an address which, after a few bemused detours down winding alleys, he finally managed to locate several minutes after the time at which he was supposed to arrive. 

The receptionist in the small front lobby looked up eagerly as he entered, a surprised look on her face as though she hadn’t expected him to show. “Mr Orkney?”

“If I’m not mistaken,” said Gawain, who’d been told as a teen before a perfunctory interview for a job his father was giving him that the interview began as soon as one walked through the door. “Apologies for the tardiness, had some difficulty finding the place.” 

“No! No, no worries,” she said, hastily rifling through a stack of papers on her desk and then rushing over to him with a pen and clipboard. “It’s so nice to meet you! Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” Gawain dialed up the suave nonchalance, a bit disturbed by her desperate enthusiasm. People this enthusiastic to meet him usually had a guillotine hidden somewhere on the property. 

She pressed the clipboard into his hand and tapped the bottom. “Sign here! It’s the release form for the contents of your interview stating we have permission to publish anything you say.”

Gawain accepted the clipboard, scanned it to verify that fact, signed it with a flourish and returned it with a winning smile. “Thanks. Lead the way.”

She led him past the desk through a pair of double doors on the far wall, talking animatedly as she walked. “You know, it’s really cool to get to meet you, I’ve— never met any of your crowd. Is that rude? I’m sorry if that’s rude.”

“Not at all,” Gawain assured her, absently taking in the details of the office. Fewer maps that he’d expected. More ugly lampshades. That was odd. 

“Cher Woods will be in in just a minute! You know, we— we actually didn’t think you’d come. Uh. Don’t tell her I told you that.”

“My lips are sealed.”

She laughed, sort of breathily, and retreated, stumbling from the room without turning around until the last moment. In the sudden quiet, Gawain studied the room. It was perhaps the tackiest room he’d ever been in, which was impressive considering his background. Every wall was plastered with cheap minimalist art, and below that the walls were a salmony pink. The colour scheme seemed to be gold, white, pink, and black, all of them competing for attention under the plastic fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. Every surface was scattered artfully with plastic centerpieces, fake plants and random vases. There were no maps. “Maps,” he said aloud, because it was a good word, and also in case there was anyone spying on him. That happened, sometimes. “Maps. Maps.”

A door across the room clicked open. “Maps?” said a young woman, her hair pulled into a tight bun and her makeup picture-perfect.

“You don’t have any,” he said, as if this made sense. Often, he found, if one acted as if the other party was the one being strange, they would believe it. 

“Uh— that’s true! We don’t.” She crossed the room to hold out her hand, her stiletto heels clicking on the floor. “Cher Woods. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Sir Gawain Orkney, likewise,” said Gawain. “Apologies for my lateness.” 

“Sir! Spicy.”

He pulled out the charming grin in appreciation for her informality. “Thank you, that’s why I became a knight. The spicy title. Of course, prince was also halfway decent.” 

“Prince! Well, if it’s alright with you, we can consider the interview formally started.” When he didn’t protest, she sat on the couch opposite him and placed a small recorder on the table in front of her. “From now on, I’m recording. I am so interested to hear about your time as a prince— is royalty really all it’s cracked up to be?”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of— cracked up to be,” Gawain answered, trying to dissect the question. It was fairly normal to start with softer questions to warm up to ones with real weight, but this was innocuous even by those standards. “In terms of political power it is contingent very much upon the place and time.” 

Cher Woods blinked politely and he got the distinct impression there was something in the question he was missing. “Well, let’s talk about your birth era,” she said. “What was it like to be a prince in a 6th century court?”

“It depends on which prince you were,” Gawain reflected honestly. “For myself, I had a great deal of power socially and politically because I was Arthur's heir and had so many holdings of my own.”

“Oh,” she said delicately. “Well, I mean you certainly must have been… popular?” 

What Gawain wanted to say was _did you prep for this interview?_ He stopped himself at the last second because that would have been very rude. Still, he thought snippily, his undergrads could have given better political interviews than this woman. “I suppose it’s feasible to discuss political influence in terms of popularity. I’m definitely a proponent of the idea that spin is an important piece of diplomatic capital.”

She tapped a pink pom-pom-topped pen against her clipboard. “I— I’ve heard, and forgive my forwardness, but I’ve heard that you employ some unorthodox diplomatic methods.” 

“The norms of political action have certainly evolved in the time since my first life,” Gawain said easily. Was she trying to get him to confess to murder? Blackmail? War crimes? He took refuge in vaguery. “I must say I place greater stock in the ethical mores of the 21st century than the 6th.”

The sharp lines of her pink lipstick narrowed in vicious determination the way an enemy's eyes might glare out from under a helmet on the battlefield. “Oh yes? I suppose your reputed talents have less place in politics now. Though I will say our readers are largely not politicians, and might nevertheless appreciate your advice, if you have any to offer.” 

For the first time the thought crossed Gawain’s mind that he should have looked up precisely what the target audience was. Perhaps it was more of a travel magazine and less of a political one. “Oh, well— aside from the obvious improvement on various fronts to do with bigotry, when I was first alive politics was very much a matter of power through force or at the very least fear. There was effectively no way to hold onto power through talent, unless that talent was— well.” It felt crude to say _killing_ out loud.

Miss Woods narrowed her eyes and leaned forward with a conspiratorial smirk. “The _well_ is exactly what our readers are so interested in, Sir Gawain.” 

They couldn’t arrest you for things you had done in the 6th century, right? Still, it felt like a dangerous PR move to discuss how exactly he had gained power in the first place. Perhaps he could lean on the sob story. “Right, then I’ll be frank, I suppose. For most of my teenage years I was engaged on the front lines of a very bloody territorial war. Some of my brothers were as well. When you see your father beheaded in front of you, you learn how to behead.”

Cher blinked. She blinked again. She sat back and tapped her pen against the clipboard at a rabbit hearted pace. “When— when did we stop talking about sex?” 

“What?” Gawain coughed despite himself and peered at her. She didn’t look like she was joking. “When were we talking about sex in the first place?”

“Uh?” She seemed about to flush, then squared her shoulders and charged onwards. “I believe the entire time. This is Cosmopolitan, after all.” 

He knew that. “I knew that. I can be very cosmopolitan. I’ve invaded a lot of urban centers. Oh, shit, I shouldn’t have said that.”

She gaped, looked at the recorder, back at him— “I— I do think the statute of limitations is up. On that— murder. Oh. Yes, murder. But this is a magazine about relationships, sex, health, careers, self-improvement, celebrities, fashion, horoscopes, and beauty.”

“Oh, cool. I’ve got all of those.”

She barely acknowledged this comment. “I hoped this interview could focus more on your reputation in that realm, particularly— if you aren’t aware— our publication is known for sex tips.” 

“Oh!” A distant part of his brain pointed out that this was very funny, and both Lancelot and Guinevere were going to have a field day with this story. A more nearby part was feeling very embarrassed, less for the lack of research and more for how evil he seemed. It was all well and good to sound evil in a political magazine; that was what people were there for. But no reader wanted to know that the man talking about his sex life in the tabloid had killed people on the battlefield at age fourteen. “Uh, sure. You’re going to have to be more specific, though.”

She brightened and adjusted her clipboard. “Oh, I have questions prepared for this part, don’t worry. Is it true that you had a habit of seducing your enemies to win them over?” 

The sky cleared. Oh, this was going to be _easy._ This wasn’t even an interrogating sort of interview. She didn’t want him dead or arrested, despite the fact that arguably he deserved both. Relaxing out of tension he hadn’t realised he was carrying, he spread his hands and grinned. “It wasn’t on purpose. It just sort of happened. You know, spirits run high, exercise gets the blood running, and I suppose people really are easily distracted when you get down to it. Uh, yes, the answer is yes.”

She wrote something down. What she could possibly have gotten out of that was hard to tell. “I see. I think our readers would wonder, are there tips or tricks from the 6th century that could be brought back to our modern bedrooms?” 

The questions scripted awkwardness hung in the air for only a moment before Gawain gathered himself in response. “I suppose many of them might be difficult to translate. I would say consider buying a sword and seeing where that takes you.” 

“Oh, now we’re getting somewhere,” said Cher. She flipped a page on her clipboard and looked up at him keenly. “So would you say sex in the 6th century was on the more risque side?”

“In my personal experience, yes. Lots of— swords, chains, that sort of— is this too far?” 

Cher shook her head, gesturing around at the aggressively tacky office. “This is Cosmo, Mr Orkney. This sort of thing is exactly what people want to hear. It’s certainly a bit more— intense— than our usual fare, but that’s why people will be interested! You mention your personal experience. What situations would modern readers be most surprised to hear about?”

He gave the horrendous rug a glance and concluded she was right. “Fair enough. I don’t think many of these situations would be applicable; it’s not as if your readers are besieging castles.” 

“Oh, we can go off the beaten track a little. Please extrapolate on that.”

Mentally, he shrugged. Physically, he leaned back a bit and laced his hands together. “Well, there's a very complex play of social power going on in medieval chivalric combat which gets more interesting when you add sex. For instance— we were besieging the castle of one Sir Gologras, and after a few failed attempts I faced him in single combat. You have to make snap judgements about someone on the fly— well I made a judgement and I let him take me captive. And— well he handed over the castle the next day.” 

“Oh!” said Cher. She said that a lot, Gawain reflected. Her expression, slightly shocked, nonetheless looked minutely more relaxed than it had a second earlier, and mentally he sorted her into a box of _probably queer._ “So, if we maintain suspension of disbelief, what tips do you have for a modern reader attempting to seduce a rival warlord into surrendering their fortifications?”

“Well,” Gawain began, finding himself perhaps a bit more relaxed as well. “I asked him to help me remove my armour. Now armour I suppose could be substituted for anything with complex straps.” 

“Maybe some sort of a steampunk getup. Lots of buckles.”

Gawain nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah, that would work. Or you could exclusively have sex at Rennaisance fairs.” 

“I’ll make a note to tell our readers that. So, assuming we have all limited ourselves to Renaissance fairs, what’s the method after armour removal?”

He thought about it. “Eye contact, brushing your hand on their arm or somesuch, using a softer, heavier voice— those should get you there. At that point either he’s well and properly seduced or you’ve failed and it’s time to consider a new strategy.” 

“Thank you, I’m sure our readers are going to find lots of everyday situations for this one.” She flipped another page on her clipboard and glanced back up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d be very interested in talking to you about your personal experiences, seeing as you certainly have a more exciting past than anyone else we could interview.”

“I’m flattered,” he said dryly. But he actually was. “My sex life is an open book. What do you want to know?” 

“What sort of salacious things do you miss from the 6th century?”

“Good lord. Not much honestly.” He gestured to the tacky surroundings as if they represented all the wonders of modernity. “The 21st has condoms, flavoured lube, toys and mattresses not filled with straw. _And_ you can still buy a sword.” 

“You seem very emphatic about the sword,” said Cher cheerfully.

“There are a lot of uses for a sword, inside and outside of the bedroom.” 

“I’m sure our readers would love to hear about both.”

It was clear she wouldn’t be happy with him until he went graphic. That was fine, he’d left shame behind in the 6th century. “Sure. Which would you like first?” 

“Let’s start with outside.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised.

“Really!” 

There was a cast to her face that he recognized, just for an instant. Intense determination. And suddenly the situation clicked. She _wanted_ him to be provocative. After all, that made a better interview, didn’t it? Sold more copies? 

He wondered briefly if it would be disadvantageous to him to be honest and then reasoned that most people barely conceptualized the era of Camelot as real, and any details he gave about his activities would probably be regarded with more horrified fascination than judgement. “I don’t think it will surprise you to learn that generally swords are for killing,” he said, his tone vague enough that he could claim later it was filled with regret if need be. “I mentioned, uh, at the beginning when I thought this was a political interview— I had to be very violent for much of my life.” He paused, gave her a lightning-fast wink. “And as for the other use of swords, it certainly wasn’t uncommon for— wires to get crossed, as it were.”

“Fascinating,” she said with a hint of humour. “Is that the deal with the beheading, too?” 

It was not often that Gawain was caught off guard. Almost faster than he could register it, an image blinked across his mind— snow, blood, a little white hart. He banished it and gave Cher an easy grin. “Maybe a bit, but I think I’m just what you’d call extremely unhinged.”

“Charming,” she said cheerily. “On that note, why don’t you speak more on your use of swords in sex?” 

“Which time?”

“Whichever are the most interesting.”

Gawain may have long lost anything resembling shame, but that didn’t mean Lancelot had. He held up a finger. “Would you mind if I called my boyfriend real quick? I want to ask him before saying anything to do with our sex life. Or, uh, lack thereof. I won’t specify unless he gives me permission.”

“Of course,” she said politely. “Boyfriend?” 

“You don’t— ah, I forget. Lancelot. Hold on, I may ask you politely to excise this part of the interview depending on what he says.” Under her curious stare, he pulled out his phone, dialed Lancelot, and held it to his ear. 

After a very large number of rings, Lancelot picked up. His voice sounded bleary. “Hnruh? Why are you disturbing my— disturbing my slumber?”

“Hey! Sorry for waking you. The political magazine was actually a sex magazine and I wanted to ask your permission to tell them about our sex life.” 

There was a long pause. “Could you— repeat that? I think I’m having a very odd dream.”

“Not an odd dream I’m afraid,” Gawain said, smiling and barely realizing he was. “I thought it was a magazine about politics but Miss Woods informs me it is actually a magazine about relationships, sex, health, careers, self-improvement, celebrities, fashion, horoscopes, and beauty.”

“Huh.” On the other end there was the sound of Lancelot locating the glass of water on his bedside table and taking a sip. “Why’d they want to talk to you, then?”

“I’ll have you know I have quite a reputation,” Gawain said in over-exaggerated fake offense. “Their readers are clamouring for my wisdom and anecdotes.” 

“Tasteless of them. Hmm. You’re asking if it’s alright to, uhm, graphically discuss our sex life? Would my— name be in there?”

“Miss Woods, can we strike his name from the record?” Gawain asked. His tone was simultaneously polite and threatening. 

Before she could say anything, Lancelot’s voice crackled over the small phone speaker. “No, no, it’s— uhm— it’s fine. It’s fine actually, I was just— curious. Uhm. Go for it.”

“You're sure?” Gawain said, smile quirking up into a smirk and a line of questioning for later drifting in the back of his mind. 

“Yup! Uh. Yup!” 

“There we have it, I guess,” he said to Cher, and then to Lancelot: “Thanks for waking up. I’ll let you return to your slumber now.”

“Have fun at your sex interview,” Lancelot said, already sounding as if he was about to pass out again. Then he hung up. 

Gawain slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Alright, where were we?”

She didn’t answer, just tapped her pen against the clipboard and gave him a curious look. “So Lancelot du Lac is your boyfriend?”

“We’re actually married,” said Gawain, who was accepting his role as talk of the tabloids and prepared to glory in it. 

“You’re— oh my God,” said Cher, and then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. “That wasn’t professional, I’m sorry. I was— expecting you to talk about your career as a ladies’ man, if I’m being honest.”

“I can talk about that too,” he offered. 

“Let’s start with the topic we were on before. I believe I had asked you about recreational uses for swords…?”

“Oh! Yes. Lots of possibilities.” He decided to dive right in. “You’ve heard of knife play?” 

“Of course.”

“It’s like that but, you know, more. And, not to get blue, but there’s also the hilt— as I said, lots of possibilities.” 

Cher hummed. “That sounds very— dangerous. Sharp. Especially if you didn’t have access to modern medicine.”

“There were risks involved yes,” he said with a grin. “But we are both very famously skilled at handling swords. Besides, the sun helps me heal much faster, so the risk reward leans to reward.” 

“I’ll note that as a tip.” She hunched forward over her clipboard and sounded out the sentence as she wrote. “Try… getting… magic sun powers… to heal more quickly. That should be widely applicable, I think. You mentioned other possibilities.”

“...how to delicately suggest inserting the hilt of a sword into your orifices,” Gawain pondered aloud. “Only if it’s an appropriate shape, of course.”

That got Cher to let out a sudden burst of laughter and reach for the glass of water on the table in front of her. “Wow. What part of it would your partner hold? That sounds difficult without someone getting their hands cut up. Or thighs.”

“That’s sort of part of it,” Gawain admitted, hoping Lancelot would remember giving him permission to say this. 

“Ah! Right. I’m getting the sense that 6th century sex involved a lot of blood.”

“Probably not for normal people.”

“I see, I see. So we’ve talked about swords. Any other hot tips that the 21st century should bring back?”

Gawain waved a dismissive hand. “Not much worth bringing back, as I said. Besides, most principles are timeless.” 

“If you don’t mind,” she said, with a curious look, “I’m sure our readers would love to hear some of your most scandalous anecdotes.”

“Oh, lord, I have a great deal of anecdotes.” He smirked. “It's hard to mentally sift through. Any requests?” 

“Well, since your boyfriend has given his permission to talk about the two of you, that would probably be best.”

They spent another hour on the interview. Cher mostly said “wow,” “oh my god” and, towards the end, “holy fuck.” Gawain left with a cheery wave, brought home lunch and promptly forgot about the experience. Cosmopolitan magazine did not forget. 

“You’re going to _love_ this article, Dinadan,” said Iseult, breezing through the front door and tossing a glossy volume at him without regard for the salad he was engaged in eating. “Positively adore it.”

“Get beach body ready: fast abs and ass workout?” Dinadan questioned. “Are you passive aggressively telling me you don’t like my ass?” 

“I love your ass. Above that. You know, the headline. The thing in the big font that you would have already noticed if you could read.”

“The hottest tips from 6th— oh Jesus Christ. When will he be stopped.” Dinadan stared at the magazine in tired disappointment. Isolde snickered. “Can’t we arrest him for something? Like as a society? We don’t have to put up with this. He’s definitely committed crimes.”

“Yeah, he talks about that,” said Iseult, with an expression traditionally found on Disney stepmothers about to torture the protagonist to death. “You have to read this, Dinadan. You’re going to enjoy it so much.”

He looked at her skeptically. “I really don’t think I will, Iseult. But fine, if it will make you maliciously gleeful.” He flipped with some reluctance to page 29. 

Time, they say, speeds up when you’re having fun. Dinadan must have been having quite a lot of fun, because he spent ten minutes staring at the first page of the interview without moving a muscle. Finally he wrenched his gaze up. “He didn’t know what Cosmo was. He didn’t know— he— oh, Iseult. This is going to be really bad, isn’t it?”

“It’s wonderful, he has some interesting suggestions.” 

“Oh no. Oh _no._ Iseult, if I don’t recover from this, I want you to cremate me, okay? And then I want you to take my ashes and leave them scattered around Gawain’s apartment.” Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and flipped the page. For several minutes the two of them sat in silence; horrified, on Dinadan’s part, and gleeful, on Iseult’s. Then Dinadan slammed the magazine down on the table and said, “Did he really tell the world that he and Lancelot had sex in front of a bunch of people Lancelot stabbed— while they were alive and bleeding out— and Gawain was still tied up? He said that? Like, publicly?”

Isolde nodded, delighted. “He did!” 

“I _hate_ him,” said Dinadan miserably, and flopped forward face first onto the table. “Lancelot, Lancelot, Lancelot… oh, the things I am willing to overlook for the sake of our friendship.”

“Even the hilt thing?” Isolde inquired, smiling like an evil cat. 

Dinadan flipped her off without raising his head from the table. “Your sadistic glee in my misery pains my soul. Also, that’s far from the worst. That didn’t have— casualties.”

“Gimme your top three hits, then,” Isolde said, hopping onto the arm of his chair and swinging her legs over his lap. “Gawain’s best Cosmo sex tips.” The chair, which had wheels, slid back about a yard with the force of her exuberance. 

“What, are you looking for recommendations?”

“I think I’ve gotten whatever knowledge he has to give firsthand.” 

“Ugh, yuck, get off me. If I touch you it’s like I’ve touched Gawain.” When she didn’t budge, he continued regardless. “Uhm, okay, so number one certainly has to be the— the admission of murder and the near-explicit public confirmation that Lancelot, my dear and beloved friend, gets turned on by killing. Boy, I hope Lancelot knew this whole thing was happening.”

“Didn’t you read the whole article?” She tapped the back of the magazine, jostling it almost out of his hands. “Paragraph three, Gawain calls Lancelot who says he can say whatever.” 

“I blacked it out,” groaned Dinadan. “Who is this Gawain boyfriend and what has he done with the Lancelot I knew… the Lancelot who also acted and talked exactly like this and has not changed at all…”

“Oh, poor Dinadan. It’s very sad.” She patted him on the back. “Did you see the part about chains?” 

Finally, with a herculean effort, Dinadan sat up. He did this so that he could more effectively glare at Iseult. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, I did, Iseult, thank you. I was getting there. Number two is the consistent obsession with chains. Just, over and over again, huh?”

“That and swords. And knives, can’t forget those.” 

“Do you think,” said Dinadan, raising a finger in the air, “that perhaps somewhere deep down Gawain knows he deserves to be chained to a wall and stabbed to death? And that it’s all just a manifestation of guilt?”

Isolde gave it a fair consideration time of one second or so before shrugging. “No, I think he’s just kind of a freak.” 

“Fine, fine, that’s… fine, I guess,” groused Dinadan, who felt a bit rude despite himself. “The murder is too far, though. That’s like— that’s like a crime. For which I shall judge exactly one half of this duo because the other half is my friend. Anyway, I think my third favourite, by which I mean third least favourite, is the— the werewolf? What? I didn’t meet _any_ werewolves in all the time I was alive, and Gawain fucked one? In graphic bloody detail?”

Isolde laughed. “Yeah, well, don’t be jealous just because you didn’t get sexually and literally eaten by a werewolf. That’s the dream.” 

“It is? I really don’t think it’s the dream.”

“It’s the dream.” It was not the dream, but it was funny to see Dinadan worked up. 

“No, no, fuck it, I am jealous. I would take intercourse with a werewolf over never meeting a werewolf. That’s a whole _werewolf_ , Iseult. I thought they were a prank. I thought everyone had invented that Melion guy to make fun of Arthur or something.” He sighed mournfully. “Anyway, this is tragic. Really tragic. I’m going to write a mean song about him.”

She sprang to her feet. “I’ll fetch Tristan and the lute!”

“No— don’t fetch Tristan he’ll— Isolde! He’ll make the song horny! Isolde—” But she was gone, or not listening. He sighed, and looked dismally at his salad. He hated Gawain. 

That same day, Gawain and Lancelot were also eating salad. They were seated at the kitchen table, Lancelot listening to a very funny true crime podcast that was supposed to be scary, and Gawain pretending to read a book and instead flipping through his phone. “Huh,” he said at length. “A lot of people are telling me my interview was very enlightening. I’d forgotten about that.”

“I hadn’t,” said Lancelot happily. On his phone, three people were found dismembered. He chuckled. 

“I certainly… said things…” Gawain said vaguely, switching to his email in case anyone more interesting wanted to interview him, preferably about politics this time. “Oh, one of my students wants a letter of rec. Oh, shit. Oh, _shit._ Lancelot.”

“Yeah?”

He looked up, his face a mask of horror. “I forgot undergrads know how to read.”

**Author's Note:**

> please we love comments we're so desperate for validation im not even beating around the bush anymore we love you thank you bye


End file.
